


No Wishing

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Episode: s03e02 Dead Man's Party, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Set in the aftermath of S03E02: Dead Man’s Party. Giles, even knowing he oughtn't overstep his bounds as a Watcher, does his best to offer Buffy some words of comfort. He can't help but feel for the girl.





	No Wishing

In the aftermath of the attack of Ovu Mobani, Rupert rests on the hood of his car, which is messily parked on the curb outside of the Summers house. It’s bent out of shape, to say the least – he’ll need to have his windshield replaced, as well as to remove the more severe of the dents in the hood, but that’s to be expected in the wake of the evening’s happenings.

He’s exhausted, and now that the adrenaline has seen fit to drain from his body, there’s an awful ache in his left shoulder, one that he’s eager to ice once he can muster up the energy to make the drive home.

Sitting alone with his glasses loosely held in his hand, he is aware of the children saying their stunted goodbyes to Buffy before each of them makes a move home, Oz walking with Willow, and Xander and Cordelia slipping into Cordelia’s car. They’re being distant with her, and even without his spectacles on, her can see the tired slump of her shoulders across the lawn, see the way her gaze is slightly downcast…

Poor girl.

It strikes him, at times like these, just how young she is, just how much of a weight she has on her shoulders – and how, for all of her efforts, she is likely to be buried in a fresh grave at a young age, no matter how much he tries to protect her.

Inhaling slowly, Rupert glances down toward the tarmac at the edge of the road, and he stares for a long few moments at the grey blur of the hard stone, trying to reconcile the depth of the exhausted emotion he feels with that which he is supposed to be as a Watcher. Rupert Giles is meant to be distant, unemotional; he is meant to be a tutor, a taskmaster, a figure of authority, not—

The Slayer isn’t meant to be _protected_ : she is meant to protect.

And the Watcher ought Watch, ought offer tutelage, not—

The way the base had dropped out of his stomach when she had gone missing still strikes him with shame and guilt; the way he had worked himself into such desperate flights of fancy, such _hope_ , when he had found scant leads on her disappearance; and the relief he had felt to see her hale and hearty, back in Sunnydale, and be unable to so much as show a sliver of it…

And that is all aside from the way Joyce had looked at him, when she had _blamed_ him, and what can he do? What can he say? Even now, she looks at him with such quiet hatred, because he has overstepped his place – and hasn’t he? He is a bad Watcher, because he acts more like a father; and he is a terrible father, because he _isn’t_ her father.

He isn’t any of these children’s fathers, and it isn’t his place to care.

He _oughtn’t_ care.

“Hey, Giles,” Buffy says softly, and he glances up from the ground. In her pink dress, with her hair tied up, she looks the very picture of sweetness – she looks precisely her age, and it makes his heart pang. She oughtn’t be the Slayer. Why had he never been prepared for this? For the understanding that the Slayer would be young, and innocent, and deserving of anything but her destiny? Something must be showing in his face in his exhaustion, because Buffy’s expression of casual care gives way to a furrowed brow and parted lips, her concern plain on her features. “You okay?”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course,” Rupert demurs hurriedly, drawing himself to straighten his back properly and sliding his glasses back onto his nose. His shoulder gives a sharp twinge of pain, and he keeps his expression schooled into neutrality, not allowing it to show on his face. “Merely tired, that’s all. How is your mother?”

“She’s okay,” Buffy murmurs, and he watches helplessly as she moves to sit down on the hood of the car beside him, her hands neatly settling into her lap. She stares down at them as if they might hold the secrets to the universe, and he sees the silver band of Angel’s Claddagh ring on her finger. He waits for her to say something, waits for her to lay some of her problems out for him to stare at uselessly: he waits in vain, because she remains quite silent. She looks so sad it _agonises_ him, but what can he do? He wishes—

But what is the sense in wishing anything?

“You fought very well tonight,” Rupert says quietly, and he wishes he could put his hand on her shoulder, perhaps even half hug her, as he has seen Joyce do with her, drawing Buffy against her breast. What must that be like, to be a parent? “You do know that, don’t you?” Buffy continues to stare down at her hands, and Rupert glances toward the house. Joyce is concerning herself with duct-taping the screen on the windows back into place, as a stop-gap before calling a repairman in the morning… “Buffy, I don’t know what the others are saying to you, or what your mother has said, but— You have been under a great deal of stress, in the past few years. While you have perhaps been vain, at times, and while I might have been momentarily disappointed that you’ve elected to pursue some fancy instead of your studies, I have only ever – and will only ever – be proud of you. While I was worried for you, when you took your leave, and while I was most relieved to have you back, I hope you understand that I’m not angry at you for it.”

Buffy’s head remains angled down, but she sniffles quietly, and he wonders if this is what parenthood is like – if he’s supposed to feel like he’s been cleaved in two, if it’s supposed to _hurt_ like this.

“Thank you,” Buffy says in a very small, thick voice. “I— I know that I don’t thank you enough, Giles, um… But I really appreciate what you do for me, and for the rest of us. I’m sorry I ran away, I didn’t— It’s just that no one _understands_ , and I have to do everything on my own, and even though everyone can help with stuff, they can’t help with… With the big things.”

 _Like killing Angel_.

It goes unspoken, but Rupert hears it nonetheless – he hears the hitch in her voice, the low sob that she tries to swallow back. Inhaling softly, steeling himself, he reaches out, and he gently places his hand on her left shoulder, feeling the pink taffeta of her dress under his palm.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, leaning in a little closer. “I know that you, ah… I know that you loved him, Buffy, and it is the world’s greatest cruelty that you were forced to— Your feelings in this matter aren’t unfounded, you know. It’s very easy for Xander to see your feelings for Angel as unimportant, to see his vampiric form as so distinct from the form you knew, but to grieve is to be expected. Even without his soul, it was still a face you loved, and… I— I’m sorry.” Buffy raises her head, and he sees that there are no tears in her eyes, although her cheeks are slightly wet. Her gaze is hard as she stares forward, and he sees her clench her jaw.

“Thanks, Giles,” Buffy says, a little stiffly. He’s said something wrong, he knows he has, but what, he doesn’t know. He wishes he could ask, but he can’t, and he draws his hand back from its too-paternal place on her shoulder, clenching it into a loose fist and holding it against his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive home right now? You look pretty beat – you could probably sleep on the couch, just ‘til morning.”

It’s a kind offer. She’s kinder than he ever expected to her, much as she can be as vapid as any teenage girl – Buffy is kind, and thoughtful, and genuinely _sweet_ , at times. That makes it harder, actually, to retain any semblance of distance. Wouldn’t it be easier, were Buffy the horrible little monster so many make her out to be? Wouldn’t it be easier, if he saw in Buffy what Snyder seems to?

She’d be happier, were she back in school. He’ll speak with Snyder tomorrow, he thinks, speak with him and put this matter of Buffy’s expulsion to bed. That snivelling little…

“No, no,” Rupert murmurs, and he shakes his head. Joyce is glancing toward them, her expression slightly pinched, and he pulls himself from the hood of his car, moving toward the driver’s door. The way that she’d looked at him, the way that she’d _said_ it: _I blame you_. “I couldn’t possibly. I’ll see you sometime this week, alright?”

“Uh huh,” Buffy says, nodding. “Sure.”

Before she can step away, Rupert says, “Buffy?” and she turns back to look at him, expectant. “I’m merely going to reiterate what I said a moment ago: I will _always_ be proud of you. Always.”

Buffy’s expression changes, her hard eyes softening slightly (and beginning to shine in the dim light), and when she _smiles_ , Rupert feels something in his chest. Not merely pride, no, but a deep affection, and a wish that he could make all of this _better_ , somehow. That he could fix it for her.

It isn’t meant to be like this: a Watcher isn’t meant to feel these things.

“Thanks, Giles,” Buffy says, almost shyly, and he drops into the seat of the car as she walks back toward the house, looking at the road ahead of him. He’ll speak with Snyder – he will. He’ll make sure Buffy can come back to school.

And—

And he needs to keep this in check. Needs to distance himself once more.

These are reasonable objectives. Doable.

He wishes—

No.

No wishing.

Flicking on the ignition, he leans back into the seat of the car, and he squints around the great, spiderwebbing crack in his windshield. He drives home in silence, and does his level best not to think.

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up on Tumblr](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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